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On, past Llandegai and all its rose-clad cottages; past yellow quarrymen walking out to their work, who stare as they pass at his haggard face, drenched clothes, and streaming hair. He does not see them. One fixed thought is in his mind, and that is, the railway station at Bangor. He is striding through Bangor streets now, beside the summer sea, from which fresh scents of shore-weed greet him.
"There's the beach, as Slade described it," said Captain Parkinson, as they came abreast of the little reach of sand. "And what are those two bird-roosts on it?" asked Trendon. "See 'em? Dead against that patch of shore-weed." "Bits of wreckage fixed in the sand." "Don't think so, sir. Too well matched." "We have no time to settle the matter now," said the captain impatiently.
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